


Make It Work

by Raptorlily



Category: Archie Comics, Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake Dating, Fake Relationship, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily
Summary: Betty and Jughead pose as a fake couple at Veronica and Archie’s wedding in Mexico. It’s probably as weird as it sounds.  Archie Comics Future Fic/ Riverdale AUFor betty-coopers-number-one-stan on tumblr.





	1. Chapter 1

The invitation doesn’t come as a surprise. Or maybe it does. Betty Cooper can’t decide. If there ever was a woman who could convince fickle Archie Andrews to drop to one knee and propose, there was only one: Veronica Lodge.

Of course, Betty hadn’t always been of that opinion.  Once upon a time, in a small town far, far away, she would’ve said that the woman would've been her. She and Archie had been best friends the minute the Cooper family station wagon pulled into the driveway of their new home and six-year-old Betty caught six-year-old Archie’s wayward basketball just as she stepped out of the car.  He smiled a shy, gap-toothed smile at her and she smiled an equally shy, gap-toothed smile back at him, and there it was, the rest of her life.

They were inseparable in childhood. Riding bikes. Playing stick-ball. Sipping juice on the platform of the old water tower, their legs swinging over the twenty foot drop, watching the world up ahead and down below. It didn’t matter how many times he’d left her in the lurch. How many times he'd broken her heart. Betty remembered how he proposed to her in his treehouse with a ring-pop and a Spiderman t-shirt with a pink popsicle stain down the front and the humming bird beat of her heart.  He'd been her first kiss. Her first date. Her first heartbreak. And she wanted him to be her last. It had a touch of destiny to it, after all; the girl and boy next door. They checked every space on the romantic cliché bingo.

And yet, somehow...

She lost.

“You make it sound like a contest,” Dr. Evans quirks a brow, leaning forward in her seat. Her clipboard is on her knee and her pen is poised in her hand. Betty can practically hear the gears whirring inside her head.

Frankly, the only reason she brought Archie up _at all_ was because the invitation popped into her inbox that morning and it was pertinent to answering the question, ‘so, what can you tell me about this week?’ that wasn't the usual tableau of overwork, overwhelm and crying in the water closet after court.

But of course, this being therapy, Betty should’ve known better than to casually drop ‘the guy I used to be madly in love with in high school and my ex best friend are getting married’ and expect it pass without comment.

It’s tiresome, picking at old scabs. Betty just wants to go home and take a nap on her couch.  

She throws herself back onto the Patterson futon with a groan instead.

 “Because it was _always_ a contest between Veronica and I.” She gestures vaguely at the room, at the side table with the Kleenex box and the potted orchid, at the obnoxious poster of the kitten instructing everyone to ‘hang in there!’  “I’d get a date with Archie and she’d find a way to get him to cancel and take her out instead. Then I’d scheme all the ways I could get him back.” She pulls her arms back in and shrugs. “It was a vicious cycle.”

 “Like a tug of war,” Dr. Evans observes.  “That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

Betty snorts.

 “Obviously. Even Ronnie and I acknowledged that we were frenemies more than we were friends.”

“Mmm,” says Dr. Evans and writes something else down. “And Archie? You said he was your best friend too.”

 “He was—once. I knew everything about him. Every scar, every bad grade, what kind of breakfast cereal was his favorite. Ever since kindergarten, I was always there for him. Whatever he needed, I’d do it, without even a second thought. But he’d always choose Ron.”

“Always?”

“Well, maybe not always,” she amends, thinking back to those magical times when she wasn’t a consolation prize, when she was his first choice, and smiles despite herself. “Sometimes he picked me.”

Dr. Evans nods and her pen moves as she makes another note.

“Sometimes he picked you,” she repeats slowly, for emphasis. “That was the hook.”

“Yeah.” Betty’s brows pinch together. “It always gave me this stupid hope—this _idea_ that all my efforts and dedication was finally getting through to him—and that eventually it’d be me. That I’d be the one he picked in the end. Like I was paying a penance or something for our future happiness.”

Which, she supposes, made it more pathetic. Whenever Archie did put her first, it was never when it counted. Big school dances, socials, keggers, the hottest and most important concerts—it was always Veronica who went. And it was Veronica he took to prom, using (through a spectacularly ironic comedy of errors) the prom-posal Betty originally prepared to ask _him_.

Did it honestly surprise anyone that she spent Prom keeping Jughead company at the buffet table and moping about the hotel room that Archie had rented for the night? 

Did it surprise anyone that, after everything, he still chose Veronica?

Her fingers curl into her palms. She was such an idiot back then.

“And now he’s getting married,” Dr. Evans says, drawing herself up in her chair and tilting her head to one side. Her expression is full of empathy. “Are you going?”

Betty turns her head and gazes out at the sprawling Chicago skyline through the window. Lake Michigan is spread out before her, gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight.

 “Yes,” she says and thinks there's a distinct possibility that she's an idiot now too.

**

Whenever Jughead Jones blows into town—which was on a semi-quarterly basis, if there is any regularity to it—he takes Betty out to a high-end restaurant and feeds her well.  He is a food critic now (because of _course_ ) and writes for several epicurean magazines and runs a food blog. He travels a lot for work. Around the country, around the world. He sends her postcards and kitschy souvenir magnets. Thanks to him, she has collection going for all the major European cities on her fridge.

Tonight, It’s the Acadia.  Grilled lamb chops with balsamic reduction for him and ginger mahi mahi for her. Jug’s direct flight from Phoenix cancelled at the last minute and he got re-routed with a lay-over in Chicago and texted to let her know.

 “You don’t have to go, you know,” he says, stabbing a fork in the air. “A destination wedding is an inconvenience for most people AND its incredibly last minute. It doesn’t have to mean anything if you say ‘no.’”

 “You say that, but you know it isn’t true.” Betty chases a leaf of arugula around her plate with a fork and knuckles her cheek. “Of course, it’s going to mean something. It’s going to _look_ like it means something."

She’s already turned it over in her head. She doesn’t show up and they will be thinking: that man used to be her whole world and now he’s marrying the girl who used to be her best friend. Of course she couldn’t bear the sight of it. She still loves him. Poor dear. Still pining away after all this time.  

She shows up, and there’s a chance they’ll be thinking, maybe she’s just plastering on a smile. Putting on airs. But there’s also a chance they’ll think, ah, Betty Cooper, she’s not the same girl we knew in Riverdale.

Because she’s not. She’s _not_.

Jughead Jones, who still unironically wears his crown beanie and once had a laptop sticker in college that declared, ‘I do what I want,’ rolls his eyes. “You barely talk to any of those ‘people.' What does it matter?”

“It matters because Ronnie and Archie are still my friends.”

Jug’s right eyebrow pops to meet the brim of his beanie.

“Old friends,” she amends.

Which is technically true, though she and Archie barely speak anymore. Facebook comments and likes, with the occasional message like, ‘we really need to catch up next time you’re in town,’ but with no actual follow-through. She and Veronica are only slightly better. A few texts and phone calls back and forth over the course of a week or two, then months of silence.

Utensils clink against the plates and there are muffled conversations around them, an instrumental jazz rendition of Peggy Lee's 'Why Don't You Do Right' playing lowly on the restaurant speakers.  When Jughead doesn’t say anything further, Betty puts down her fork with a sigh and reaches for her Vinho Verde.

 “OK, I don’t know,” she relents. “Maybe **I** just want to close the book once and for all. Veronica and I were supposed to eventually agree on a groom. We were supposed to be each other’s maids of honors, for god’s sake. It would feel weird to decline. It would be like dragging this out forever and I don’t want to do that anymore.”

She also impulsively RSVP’d on the walk over and isn’t quite ready to give into calling it a moment of madness just yet.

Jughead eyes her warily as she takes a greedy quaff of her wine. “So you’re _not_ going to speak now instead of forever holding your peace, right?”

“Oh God!” Betty twists up her face into a look of disgust. “It’s not like that at all. I’d never be so selfish as to ruin someone’s wedding day for a man I barely know anymore—and certainly not for a man that has been rejecting me his whole life.”

Frankly, she’s a little insulted that he would think that.

 “Weddings make people crazy.” Jughead shrugs and cuts himself a generous piece of his lamb steak.  “Great Aunt Hester stripped to her skivvies at my cousin’s wedding after getting on the ree-raw.”

“I’m _not_ your Great Aunt Hester, Jug.”

“No, but I’ve seen you landline tequila before.”

She kicks his shoe under the table and he says ‘ouch’ but with a smirk.

“Seriously, though.” Betty tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not that I’m heartbroken or that I want him back or anything. Archie and I haven’t been anything to one other for over a decade. It’s just… it’s complicated.”

“An old wound,” Jug offers, taking a sip from his own wine. “A scab to itch.” He tilts his head and considers her another moment. “And maybe tangible proof that you’re cool with it all?”

She blinks at him in surprise.  “Exactly.” 

The tealight between throws the contours of his face into sharp relief. His cheeks have sunken a bit since he had his wisdom teeth removed; his jawline more pronounced.  There’s more of a sardonic tilt to his mouth.

He’s always understood her somehow and it strikes her how so much about him is still the same, yet different.  

She plays with the stem of her wineglass, thinking for a moment. “You’re going too, right?”

As far as she knows, Jughead and Archie are still friends. Or at least, they interact more offline than online. She knows they saw each other last month and caught up over beers. She saw the photo evidence on Facebook. They aren’t close anymore, though. Reggie is Archie’s best man and Betty wonders what changed about their friendship. She, Archie and Veronica—it was understandable and gradual and there was _a_ reason. Jughead and Archie? They’d always been brothers. Even in college. It sometimes made _their_ continuing friendship a little awkward, but Betty trusted Jug not to report to Arch about anything personal going on in her life. He’d always had her back. More so than he had Archie’s sometimes.

Jughead lolls his head from one side to the next, as if still weighing his options. Briefly, his eyes dart toward the kitchen from which a waitress in a crisp, white apron emerges, juggling several plates of steaming food.  

“I suppose, if you are," he decides. "Not sure if I’m feeling half as strongly about it, though. Lately, Arch has taken it upon himself to try and set me up. Relive his bachelor years through me vicariously or some crap like that.”

"Oh?" Interest piqued, Betty lifts a brow and leans in on her forearms. “How’s that working out for you?”

 He wipes his mouth on a napkin and smiles at her crookedly. “About the same as it always does. Archie and I are _nothing_ alike in our taste in women.”

Betty curves a teasing smile.

“I wasn’t even aware you _liked_ women, Mr. Thanks-But-No-Thanks-I'm-A-Bachelor."

She sometimes forgets that Jug is no longer as staunch on his no-dating policy. She knows that he’s had a few girlfriends here and there since college, though she’d never officially met any of them. Apart from Trula Twyst—whom he dated all senior year and mentioned from time to time while they were together—Betty can’t even recall their names. _Maybe_ she could get by using vague descriptors, like, ‘that girl whose dad owns that restaurant in Cleveland—the bistro?’ or ‘the yoga instructor with the dog on the lacto-ovo vegetarian diet?’ without mixing up too many of their stories but the opportunity does not present itself often. Considering their mutual lack-there-of, relationships a rare subject of discussion between them.

Most of Jughead's girls were blonde, though; that much Betty does remember from the Facebook photos. Pretty, with light-colored eyes and easy smiles. Leaning into him, kissing his cheek, posing in front of the Sphinx in Giza, sharing a milkshake with two straws.

Trula had been the only redhead.

Jughead gives her a sour look.

 “That was high-school, Betty. You can’t blame me for that. Everyone was so _fickle_ back then.  It was exhausting just watching you, Archie and Reggie getting on and off the merry-go-round, trying to get the people you wanted to date to date you and no effort ever really stuck.”

"Jughead Jones, if you ever had to wrangle a cow to make a burger, you'd probably starve. **Love** is worth every effort."

"Love. _Right,'_ he snorts and stabs another fork into his dinner. "More like always wanting what you couldn’t have.”

 “Oh come on, it wasn’t like that.” Betty frowns. “Not for me, anyway. I think I really did love Archie in High School. Or at least, as much as I could love anyone at the time.”

The constant mooning and pining, the tear-smudged pages in her diary.  It was puppy love, perhaps, but love nonetheless.  

It hurt badly enough.

Jughead makes another, derisive-sounding noise and she frowns.

“OK. Just how screwed up do you think I am?”

“This is where I plead the fifth, right Counselor?”  He pushes his plate away and shakes his head, before adding: “No more than anyone else, I’d say. Arch is convinced I’ve been holding out on him. That I’ve had some bird on the brain this whole time—never said a single word about it to anyone, just stuffed myself with food and hoped it’d fill up the emptiness." He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "How screwy would that make _me_?”

“Depends." She eyes him warily. The idea is a romantic one, but a little outrageous. "Is it true?"

“Hell no.” Jughead laughs. “But it’s a fun theory, don’t you think? People are always trying to put labels on things to explain it to themselves and then get angry when people defy them.”

“Mmm." Betty takes another sip of her wine. "Wonder what label they’ll put on _me_ when I waltz into that wedding a single pringle?”

More so, she wonders what label _Veronica_ would put on it. Betty had effectively put herself on the shelf ever since she and The-Great-Mistake-Named-David broke up and then forgot to remove herself off said shelf.

There had always been something. Work. Training. Her mother’s breast cancer. Polly and the kids coming up to live with her while she and Jason grappled with the age-old question to divorce or not to divorce. And the longer she stayed out of the dating game, the harder it was to get back in. She got used to being alone. Couldn’t decide what she wanted. And now, as she was nearing her thirties, the herd was starting to thin out.

If Betty were in Veronica’s (undoubtedly designer) shoes, she’d probably be thinking it too.

“So get yourself a boyfriend," Jughead suggests breezily.

Betty makes a face, smoothing down the sleeves of her blouse self-consciously. 

“In three and a half weeks from now?”

“You’ve always had guys tripping over themselves to date you, Betts. I’m sure you won’t have too much trouble.”

“Yeah, that was when I was seventeen and fit, and not stuffing my face with meeting bagels every morning.”

God. She had been in the shape of her life back then, but instead of putting herself out there and meeting new people, she was hung up on the one guy that would, ironically, only ever give her the time of day when she was dating someone else.

She expects Jughead to laugh, but he doesn’t. She looks up and is surprised to find him staring at her solemnly, his green eyes fixed on hers.

“I think you look great,” he says simply and because it’s Jughead, she knows he means it.  She smiles at him warmly.

“Thanks, Juggie,” she says. “I guess if worse comes to worst, I can snag you for a couple of dances, right?”

“Sure." He plucks the half-empty bottle of wine off the table to top off her glass before emptying the rest of it into his with a flourish.  "Or you can just come with me as my date...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest thanks to createandconstruct and jandjsalmon for helping me get my head together and for looking over this chapter. Your encouragement and support is phenomenal. ❤

“That sounds great, Juggie,” Betty smiles at him, politely moving out of the way when a waiter appears at her elbow to clear away their plates and fights an ache of disappointment despite herself. There is a difference between someone dancing and keeping her company and _dancing_ and _keeping her company_.  She knows which she prefers and which one Jughead means. It’s the same one he always means.

He’d sit with her, dance with her, eat with her and talk with her, but this was all he was ever going to offer. She supposes it’s fitting. Maybe even funny in a way. Jughead, her Designated Date at Veronica and Archie’s wedding.

It feels like a failure and a closed loop all in one.

She’s already getting flashbacks of Prom, sitting beside Jug at a table and morosely picking at cake and strawberry champagne. When Jughead requests the dessert cart, Betty has a premonition of how the wedding with him as her ‘date’ will go.

“What?” he asks and Betty realizes her internal eyeroll must’ve be written all over her face. “The pecan cake here is amazing.  I could write a thousand words on the caramel filling alone.” Light and shadows stir as his long fingers fiddle with the candle jar in the center of the table. “And you can say ‘no,’ if you want,” he adds after a beat, looking down, his tone casually.

“Mmm? ’No’ to what? The cake?”

She _will_ need to cinch it if she’s going to be parading around in a bikini in a few weeks.  Her pants have been feeling a bit snug lately and her belly hasn’t been flat since she finished with college track. Jughead, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have that problem. He’s still all leonine and long-limbed and it's not the first time Betty wonders just when that freakish metabolism of his will catch up to him.

“To being my date,” he clarifies, raising his eyes to meet hers almost pensively. “I won’t object if you find someone a little flashier between now and when we leave.”

“Flashier," Betty says flatly.

Jughead waves a hand. “You know, to impress Veronica and everyone else.”

“What?” She scrunches up her face.  “No, Jug. No way. If Veronica—or anyone—wants to judge me for not having a steady boyfriend, that’s fine. But I’m not going to this wedding to make an impression. I’m simply going to the wedding to honor our friendship and wish them both well.”

Jughead raises both brows to the brim of his beanie in mock astonishment. “Wow, that almost sounds like you’re taking the high road there, Betts.”

“There’s less traffic there than on the low road,” she quips, eyes now helplessly drawn to the cart of delectable cakes and confectionaries rolling up to their table.  “Besides, I could use the vacation. I haven’t had one since I’ve taken this job and I’m _so_ exhausted.”

She shakes her head and politely smiles her decline at the waiter after Jug indicates the pecan cake and the chocolate stuffed, powdered beignets.

“Thank you,” Jughead tells the waiter, accepting his plate back, now laden with dessert. It isn’t on the table in front of him for more than a second before Betty is reaching over with her fork and taking a swipe at his cake. “Hey!” he complains and she smirks at him triumphantly, her mouth full of caramel-chocolate-pecan-y goodness.  “You know, if you ever took me up on any of my offers, you could’ve had a vacation sooner.”

“Please. When have you ever offered?”

“I offer all the time.  Which reminds me.” Jug reaches down to dig into the pocket of his slacks and smacks down a colorful souvenir magnet onto the table, sliding it over to her. “What do you think all these and the postcards are for?”

Betty picks the magnet up in the hand not holding her fork, turning it over. It’s a resin mould of the Sagrada Familia, with ‘Barcelona’ written in stylized script at the bottom. The city is painted in golds and maroons and royal purples, the Balearic sea a line of glittering azure in the background where it meets the light blue of the sky. It’s perhaps the prettiest one he’s picked out so far.

Her gaze slides back to meet his and she curves him a smile.

“Bragging."

“ _Enticing_.” Jughead corrects. “I’m a subtle guy,” he adds, eyes twinkling. “And you wouldn’t have to put up with Ronnie’s moodiness.”

“Mmm. Tempting.” Betty steals another forkful of cake, grinningly ignoring his mock-glares and half-hearted attempts at keep-away. “But, if it means I get to stay in a no expense-spared, luxury suite in the Mayan Riviera for a few days— _for free_ —I think I can weather a bit of Hurricane Lodge.”

The bridesmaids will be the ones bearing the brunt of Veronica’s _enfant terrible_ behavior for most of the trip, after all. Betty doesn’t know who they are—probably a few of the dolled up glamazons Ronnie is always throwing peace-signs and kissing cheeks with on her Instagram—but she already feels sorry for them. Ron is one of those women you look at and just **know** she is the Bridezilla prophecy foretold. Demanding, entitled, controlling—and that’s Veronica Lodge on her best days. On her worst, the Devil could hit her up for some pointers.

Betty figures she should count her blessings that she hasn’t been asked to be part of the bridal party. In another lifetime, some alternate timeline, she probably would’ve been.  But in this universe, she is just a guest; free from obligation. Wonderful to have you here if you come, I completely understand if you don’t.

It’s… nice… after everything.

Neutral. _Terra nuillus_.

Jughead is studying her with that steady, unnerving gaze that sometimes feels like a brain-scan and she knows something must have changed about her expression.  “Are you sure, Betts? Ron always had a way of getting under your skin.”

“Maybe that was true, once," she allows with a shrug. "But that was mostly where Archie was concerned and that’s really a non-issue.”

"Isn't it?"

He continues to stare at her dubiously, one eyebrow gradually hiking higher and Betty dashes the flicker of annoyance at the contest he’s posing. She knows he’s only looking out for her, but there’s something in his expression that makes her feel like he’s trying to back her into some guilty corner; get her to admit something that isn’t there anymore.

She rolls her eyes.

“It’s been _years,_ Jug.  Isn't it time we do the grown up thing and bury the hatchet?" She shakes her head and steals one last crumb off his plate and licks the fork clean. "I’m not going to get all high school about this, I promise.”

***

It takes her less than twenty-four hours to get all high school about it.

She calls Veronica from work the next day around 10:00 am, but it goes to directly to voicemail after two rings. Feeling silly about recording her congratulations on a machine, Betty hits 'end' and texts Jughead back (a thumbs-up and a happy cat emoji in response to his ‘home sweet home!’) and goes to get herself a bottle of water from the breakroom.

The rest of the day goes to shit after that. The subpoenaed personnel files from Alphacom arrive on time but in spectacular fuck you fashion; sixty-two boxes that fill up conference room b, effectively burying Betty and her team under a mountain of paperwork for the next few days. She spills her mid-morning chaipuccino on her dress shirt, absent-mindedly eats a donut in a tense moment at the come to Jesus meeting with the latest class action and then around two in the afternoon, Morrison arrives with the signed deal for a lesser prison sentence for Mr. Morello, along with the phone number of the victim’s seventy-two-year-old grandmother.

“Make the call, Elizabeth. She needs to hear it from you.”

One heart-in-blender phone call, a notice of appeal, and several cups of coffee later, it is dark outside and the banker's lamp on her desk is switched on and Betty is sitting in her office at her desk tapping her pen and thinking about a stress cigarette. There’s a timeworn cliché about lawyers keeping whiskey in desk drawers, pulling out the bottle for a swig to calm the nerves on tough days. Betty isn’t a whiskey drinker and she’s not a technically smoker either, and while it’s not the toughest day she’s had by any stretch of the imagination, sometimes…

Sometimes she wonders if she knew this was she signed up for the day her acceptance letter from Columbia arrived.

Pawing through her leather satchel for a lighter, Betty slaps down a few miscellaneous items onto her desk, lip gloss, hair ties,  old receipts, but pauses when her fingers brush the Barcelona magnet Jughead had given her last night. 

She picks it up, holding it in her open palm, and smiles despite herself. It really is sweet that he thinks of her whenever he is in another city; that he takes the time to find just the right magnet for her collection. She can almost picture him wandering around colourful marketplaces, perusing the shelves in cluttered stores, slouching as he always does, his hands in his pockets.

If nothing else, it will be nice to be able to catch up with him for more than a few hours while they’re in Mexico.

She jumps when her cellphone blares to life, and she slides the green bar to answer. Veronica’s usual snide-sounding vocal fry greets her on the other line.

“Betty dear, I saw you called earlier. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to dial you back until now; this afternoon has been _such_ a beast.”

Betty briefly wonders what the heir to Lodge Industries must do all day to be so busy, but then remembers Veronica is at the helm of several successful charities and _is_ planning a last-minute wedding and shoves that judgmental thought aside.

“Preaching to the choir here, Ron,” Betty says, toeing off her suede blue pumps and bonelessly slumps back into her desk chair with a sigh. “This day has been kicking my ass too. I should probably just set up camp in this office for the next week.” She looks at her Outlook Calendar open on her laptop screen flagged with angry red reminders and winces; it's not an exaggeration. “But anyway, I called earlier because I wanted to offer you my—“

“—Condolences?” Veronica cuts in, voice taut with irritation. “Yes, thank you. Daddy is forcing my hand to invite Cheryl Blossom to the wedding.  Can you believe it? _Cheryl Blossom_.  At my beautiful upcoming nuptials. It's a disaster."

"You and I have different criteria for what constitutes disaster."  Betty rubs the inside corner of her eye tiredly and then checks her fingertips for smudges. She wonders what Veronica would call an earthquake in Milan. "And Cheryl isn't _that_ bad."

Given that their siblings are married to each other and they’re both aunts to the twins, Betty occasionally sees her _other_ ex-rival for Archie’s affections, usually at the bigger Blossom-Cooper family gatherings. Although the uncertainty of Jason and Polly’s relationship in recent years has put some distance between the two extended families, but when the families do get together, it’s not terrible.  Cheryl has mellowed out a lot since her brief but meme-able stint on the reality tv circuit and now works as a small time DJ in LA. The last time they spoke, she’d been taking guitar lessons from Demi Lovato’s music teacher and invited to do a photoshoot in Baja with a band she’d been working to promote.

But whereas Betty and Cheryl have since put their past behind them, it’s a spin of the wheel as to where Veronica and Cheryl stand. Running in the same social circles in SoCal and both holding shares in Archie's recording business, their reasons to squabble have multiplied since high school.

“Not that bad?” Veronica echoes incredulously and Betty guesses they're at another low in their friendship. “Marissa Web’s new autumn collection is ‘not that bad.’ Cheryl Blossom is—I can’t even describe what Cheryl is! She’s so annoyingly pathetic. A washed-up, no talent, can’t-keep-a-man loser.”

Betty can hear heels ticking against marble floors, followed by the pitter-patter of tiny excited dog feet. She can imagine Veronica pacing around her lavishly decorated SoCal apartment, Gigi, her tiny purebred Yorkie, loping around her ankles. Knowing Veronica, she's probably dressed to the nines in some vintage Hollywood housecoat—satin and utterly theatrical. 

It wouldn't surprise her if her shoes were tipped with pink feathery pom-poms.

“I just hate having her there,” Veronica goes on vehemently. “Daddy doesn’t care because he doesn’t approve of Archie anyway, but I can’t stand the idea of that little witch sitting there and watching my husband-to-be at the altar with those big weepy ‘I wish it was me up there’ eyes. What kind of self-negating loser comes to their ex-boyfriend’s wedding _single_?”

“Um, yeah," Betty says, fiddling with the Barcelona magnet in her hand. “That _would_ be pathetic.”

She knows she shouldn’t be taking it personally. Veronica is just blowing off steam, but it feels a bit like she’s taking aim at Cheryl but hitting bulls eye on Betty instead. She looks around the dingy cramped space that looks more like an inner city library storage room. No ring on her finger. Greasy take-out bags in her trash. An empty apartment and a cat to go home to later in the evening... 

Veronica seems to catch herself and at once, her tone changes.

“Oh, Betty.” She heaves a sigh. “I don’t mean _you_. You’re... you’re not sad and pathetic for not having a boyfriend.  I mean, do I think you should be putting yourself out there more? Yes. It has been an _age_ and if you ask me, you _would_ benefit from getting the prosecution to rest at _your_ place every now and again, if you know what I mean..."

_Oh God._

Betty gnashes her teeth together and glances out her ground-floor window at the maple tree outside. She knows _exactly_ what Veronica means and although Ron would never be as blunt or as forward with her about as she is when ranting about Cheryl Blossom, it pierces her confidence nonetheless as she has an acute vision of the pitying looks and flat smiles and the innocent inquiries of 'have you tried online dating? I have friend who met her husband through eMatch, y'know.'

It shouldn't be as bad, it shouldn't bother her, but even _Jughead_ thought there was a reason to be concerned last night, and '...can't-keep-a-man loser' boomerangs back painfully. 

“I _have_ a boyfriend, Ron," the words are out before they can even register and Betty's eyes widen.  

Shit. Why did she just say that? 

“You… do?” Veronica sounds confused. “Is he coming to the wedding with you?”

“Um... of course." 

“But the RSVP says you and Jughead?"

Betty makes a fist. Jug must have changed the info on the e-vite. 

“That’s… uh… right," she bluffs. 

_Wait, what?_

“What?!”  Veronica shouts.

Betty covers the mouthpiece on the phone and shuts her eyes.

_Ok, deep breaths. Don't panic. Damage control. You're a lawyer. You can spin your way out of this._

“I’m sorry,” Veronica’s voice is slow and even, “but did you just insinuate that you and Jughead are…”

Betty uncovers the speaker and smoothly replies: “Together? Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”

Oh, God damn it. 

_Really, Cooper? **That** was the best you could do?_

There is a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Then Veronica lets out a merry laugh. “No, he’s not.”

Betty blinks, affronted. “Yes, he _is_.”

“Betty,” Veronica drawls lazily. “You don’t need to pretend you’re dating Jughead to prove anything to me. I know people get weird at weddings. Yes, our situation has history and I know what I said about Cheryl, but there is really no judgment here. And besides,” she adds, amusement colouring her words, “whatever is going on in your life right now, we both know you could do a whole lot better than _Jughead Jones_.”

That sound? Her blood boiling.

“I don’t think there’s anyone out there who’d live up to the standards you have for me, Ron,” she informs her ex best friend in a voice like freezer burn. “But you are dead wrong. Jughead is a good man and any woman would be so lucky to be with him.”

Veronica snorts.

“Forgive me, Betty, but that’s so bizarre, even for you. When did this happen? How? Where? _Why_?”

“A few months ago.”  Betty’s fingers curl into her palm, her head buzzing with a hundred different complicated thoughts and emotions, most of them centered around a wayward meteor and end times and the present moment. There is no going back now; she might as well commit to it.  Her eyes drift around the room and settle on the resin magnet sitting on top of her desk and she sets her jaw.  “Six, to be exact. In Barcelona.”

“ _Six months_? That **is** serious.  But Archie said Jughead was in Barcelona last week?”

Betty stamps her foot under the desk and bangs her in knee on the upkick.  _Fuck_. “Yes, uh, he went again.”

“Interesting,” Veronica says and there’s an annoyingly amused lilt to her tone, like she’s trying to bite back a smile. “I didn’t see any photos on social media from that trip. Or any photos of you two together at all, for that matter. Strange that Archie wouldn’t mention it.”

“That’s because Archie doesn’t know. Nobody knows. We’ve been keeping things under wraps. Jug travels a lot and I work like a crazy person. We wanted to give it some time before we started telling people about it.”

There. That sounds entirely plausible.

“Yes, the girl next door dating the woman hating weirdo would get everyone’s lips flapping, wouldn’t it?” Veronica observes dryly. “I take it the cat will be out of the bag for the wedding? Interesting choice of timing, by the way, making it official then?”

Betty rolls her eyes.  “I’m not trying to steal your thunder, Ron, if that’s what you think…”

“No, not at all.” Veronica says lightly. “It’s just—surprising, is all. But understandable. You two love birds probably don’t get long stretches of time together often and you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off one another anyway. Someone would be **_bound_** to notice.”

_Bury me now._

“Er, yeah, exactly.”

“Say, I have an idea! Why don’t I book you two into an overwater bungalow next to ours? It’s utterly romantic and you can make up for lost time.”

“Ron, that’s extremely generous but we can’t accept—“

“Pish posh, Betty. Of course, you can.  I have plenty of money but you don’t have much time. Thirty is approaching, you know—tick tock!—and if I know anything about that needle-nose laze-about, he takes his sweet time with everything. If she can help you speed along your relationship some, Veronica Lodge is more than happy to help.”

“Veronica!”

“I won’t hear another word. And that’s Daddy on call-waiting. I’ll chat with you soon and we can finalize the details! Ta-ta!”

“Veronica, wait, don’t say anything to—“

But the line has gone dead.  Betty stares at her phone, unseeing for a moment, her heart pounding.

_Crap._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay everyone. I hit writer's block and forgot how to word. To make up for it, I hope to get another few chapters up this weekend.
> 
> Also, hang in there with me regarding Veronica. This is the comics-verse, so she's a bit snottier, but not everything is as it seems :)


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Y’know, usually this whole fake boyfriend business works a whole lot better if the people you’re lying to don’t actually know both people involved.”

The word ‘lying’ lifts away from the conversation and crackles like a pyrotechnic star, glittery, sharp and attention-grabbing. Betty shuts her eyes, covering them with her palm.

It’s eight o’clock in the evening and she is in running shorts and a loose yoga top, sitting Indian-style on her sectional, morosely picking at the squiggles of lettuce from the shawarma wrap she picked up on the way home for her dinner. Toffee is pushing his face into her knee, canvassing for a scratch behind the ears, but Betty is too preoccupied to notice. She is almost thirty years old. She has respectable job, a two-bedroom condo in the city with a sprawling view of the Mag Mile, and up until recently, felt beholden to the belief that her love life (or lack thereof) was nobody’s business but her own.

And yet, _this_ is a conversation that she is having.

Jughead is on-screen on Facetime, visible from the grey towel around his t-shirt clad shoulders up to the pointy ends of ink-black hair, still wet from the shower her call had interrupted. He scrubs the side of his head with the corner of the terry-cloth and makes a face.

“Seriously,” he continues. “My own mother doesn’t believe me when I tell her I’m going on a date.”

“I know, Juggie,” Betty groans, glancing out her living room window and smothering the urge to fling herself the ten stories off her balcony into Michigan Avenue below. “I _know_ . I’m _so_ sorry.”

And then she flicks her gaze back to him. “Wait, when did you last have a date?”

All expression slips from Jughead’s face.

“My point exactly,” he deadpans. “Thank you.”

Betty sighs, puts her food aside on the coffee table and shoos Toffee off the couch, rotating her body to lay down length-wise so that her long, blonde hair splays out on the arm rest. She feels sixteen years old again, plotting payback at Veronica or spilling her Archie-related woes to one of the only people simultaneously exasperated by and perfectly tolerant of her immaturity. The only difference is, there’s no vinyl phone cord to twirl around on her fingers and Jughead isn’t crunching his way through the conversation.  He’s puttering around his New York apartment, looking like he’s doing a walk-around tidy—which is a novelty on its own.

Jughead still saunters everywhere. He reclines, sprawls and kicks his perpetually sneakered feet up to cross at the ankles. He still dresses like he did in high school: jeans, graphic tees and flannel shirts rolled up to the elbows, and for a moment, Betty tries to imagine him bringing a woman back to his place.  Even if Jellybean weren’t temporarily living with him while attending the New York Film Academy and Jughead wasn’t an overly-protective older brother, the image of him picking up girl at a bar or holding open his apartment door for a lady friend is still utterly at odds with the Jughead that Betty has always known.

No wonder Veronica had scoffed at the idea of the two of them together.  

“You were right,” she says, staring at the ceiling. “Weddings _do_ make people crazy. _Veronica_ makes me crazy. I don’t know why I was so insistent on going to this stupid thing.”

“Because you wanted to prove you’re not that desperate, pathetic girl from high school anymore?”

_Ouch._

Betty pulls the phone up to frown up at him.  “Wow. Way to pull those punches, Jughead.”

“Well, you’re not making this easy on yourself,” Jughead tells her, shaking his head. She spots the pan-rack over his shoulder and knows he’s walking into his kitchen now. “Or for me, for that matter. I’m pretty sure there’s something in the bro-code about dating a buddy’s ex-girlfriend.”

Betty shuts her eyes, bumping the backrest with the back of her head repeatedly.

Archie had beaten her to the punch, probably having called Jughead while she was standing in line at the Naf Naf Grill juggling the decision of hummus or no hummus—confess her shame now or confess later. She had decided on the latter, in the sanctity of her home where she could wear loose clothing and safely cry into a double pint of Häagen-Dazs if need be.

Betty gets up to shuffle into her kitchen.  “Did Archie sound upset? When he called you?”

It was bad enough that she dragged Jughead into this in the first place. She didn’t even consider what it would mean for his friendship with Archie.

“He’s getting married in three weeks,” Jughead says. “I think it’d be a little weird if he was upset.” Then a certain note weaves its way into his voice that immediately sets Betty's teeth on edge. “Why? Did you expect him to be?”

“No. It was just the way you said bro-code.” She dismisses the unspoken suspicion and sticks her head in the freezer, smiling despite herself when she hears the tell-tale tinkle of dry cereal hitting porcelain a bowl on the other line. Jug is worse than Toffee rushing to his bowl of kibble whenever he sees someone else sit down to eat. “You still didn’t tell me what happened.”

“Not much. He told me Veronica spoke with you and that you said we were dating and when he asked me if it was true, I said it was. He said it explained why I’d been so uncooperative with him playing my wingman the last couple of months.”

Betty locates the ice-cream carton behind the steak and the frozen peas and elbows the freezer closed as she turns to look down at her phone.  “Wait, so you... _covered_ for me?”

Jug is seated at his kitchen table, carton of milk at his elbow, already shoveling in his first mouthful of cereal. He pauses to flick his gaze away then back to meet hers uncertaintly. “Was I not supposed to? I thought you had some master plan for all this?”

“No, no master plan. I just got backed into a corner and panicked.”

“Betts, you’re a _lawyer._ Isn’t making up bullshit on the spot sort of your job description?”

Betty groans. Court has never been her strong suit. Morrison usually avoided giving her lead chair whenever he could and especially when he thought she was getting too involved in a case. Her propensity to freeze on the spot is something she and Dr. Evans were working on.

“You know that viral video of the little girl trying to close the fizzing Pepsi bottle?” She roots around in the utensil drawer for a big spoon. “Well, it was kind of like that, but with e-vites.”

God. This wasn’t what she pictured what her life would be like post-Archie. Somehow, she thought that separating herself from him and her silly, girlish ideals of him would at least have her stop losing in her relationships. It turns out, her failures were just concentrated in that arena.

 _Poor Bets. She’s always coming second best_.

_In life, there are two kinds of people—winners and Betty’s._

Wasn’t that a conversation she overheard between Archie and Ronnie once?

With a spoon located and ice cream carton in hand, Betty bumps the drawer closed with her hip and shuffles back into her living room to hurl herself back onto a couch with the defeated resignation of a forty-eight-year-old divorcee.

“Anyway, now I just need to gather the courage to call Ronnie back and hope it doesn’t happen again.” She shovels out a heaping mountain of the ice cream with her tablespoon and looks down at it morosely. “God, I can already picture the smug look on her stupid, smug face.”

Jughead’s expression softens. “Is that the Cherry Vanilla, Betts?”

“It might be,” Betty mutters around a mouth full of just that.

There is a pause. Jughead flicks his gaze up at the ceiling as if suddenly looking for some kind of divine guidance and pulls in a deep breath.

“Don’t tell Veronica,” he says on exhale and the spoon nearly slips from Betty’s mouth.  

“ _What_?”

“Technically, I was going to be your date anyway.” Jughead goes on, his eyes on _his_ spoon in the cereal bowl, fiddling with his food.  “And we’ve done this a few times before, so I hardly think this new development changes anything.”

Betty glances at Toffee and raises a brow just to relay her incredulity to someone. Toffee, who is presently swatting at a bright pink catnip ball under the coffee table, pauses to stare back at her and she swears that he gives her the feline-equivalent of a shrug.

The back of Betty’s neck begins to prickle, her heart thumping a little quicker.

Maybe she is having a mental break after all. Or perhaps (she glances at her shawarma wrap) there was something in the tzatziki.  Or maybe the ice cream. Was Jughead suggesting they go through with it?

“You mean, pretend that we’re a couple,” she says slowly, just to clarify.

Jughead busies himself with pouring himself more milk. It could be the lighting, but his forehead and cheeks look a little darker.

“Well, how hard could it be?” he asks. “We hold hands, come up with a few schmoopy nicknames and stare at each other moon-eyed every now and again. What’s the problem?”

“Um, _selling_ it? We can’t just tell people we’re in a relationship and go through the motions. _They’ll know_.”

“Funny, to hear most people talk, ‘going through the motions’ is what characterizes most relationships.”

Betty rolls her eyes. 

“Ah, yes, another brilliant swath of wisdom from Mr. Jones’ Cynical Compendium on Life and Love," she quips, shaking her head at him. "Don't you even _know_ Veronica? She’s already called my bluff. Twice _._ She even upgraded us to a luxury couple’s suite on the water just to see if she could throw me off my game.”

“ _Luxury couple’s suite_?”

She gives a vague wave. “Yeah, I think she said it was an overwater bungalow or something.”

Jughead’s eyes widen slightly.

“Well, gee, that _does_ sound terrible,” he declares sarcastically, voice drier than a graham cracker. “If we keep this up, Ronnie might buy us a boat or maybe even an island and who wants _that_?”

He takes another noisy crunch of his cereal and Betty huffs out a laugh. Leave it to Jughead to find some kind of angle. She had been so upset with herself for getting into this situation and too worried about his reaction to consider anything else.

She tilts her head at him.  "Are you _sure_ you want to do this? If we play this game, not all of Ron’s volleys are going to be that nice.”

“Maybe not,” Jughead agrees. “But you forget that this is Ronnie's wedding and everyone’s going to be too busy running around trying to please her highness than focus on what you and I are doing." He lets out a snort. "Hell, Archie will be lucky if she remembers _he’s_ supposed to be there too.”

 “You’re suddenly very into this," Betty observes with an arch of her brow. The Jughead she used to know would have told her she was out of her tree and she'd have to beg and cajole and eventually promise to prepare a seven course every day, for two weeks, to get him to agree to such a ruse. "What happened to everything you said earlier about being a terrible choice for a fake boyfriend?”

“What can I say, Betts? Some of us evolve past high school.” He smirks at her and even though she knows he’s teasing and she rolls her eyes and smiles in return, there’s something in his expression that she cannot place.

He takes another bite of his cereal; chews, swallows, and then he continues.

“Look, if this little white lie will help you save face and figure out what you need to figure out—hell, maybe even _enjoy_ yourself at this thing—I can play the Chandler to your Monica. And if we get Archie to quit trying to set me up with people and tweak Ronnie’s nose a little while we’re at it, that’s just a bonus.”

“Hmm.” Betty takes a considering bite of her ice-cream, wondering if Jughead remembers that Monica and Chandler got married (probably not; he was always more of a Seinfeld fan). “And then after? What will we tell people _after_ the wedding?”

“I don’t know. Pick a cliché." Jughead waves his spoon at her dismissively. "The long distance sucks, you hate the way I gargle, we figure out that we work better as friends, etcetera etcetera.” He gaze drops back down to the cereal bowl and he shrugs. “I mean, _that_ won’t be nearly as far-fetched as the two of us together, right?”

He looks up and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments. The air seems to thicken in Betty’s lungs before something wet and sticky suddenly hits her bare thigh and she looks down to discover that she’s dripping ice cream all over herself.

“Right,” she murmurs, brushing it off.

**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this being a shorter chapter, however, I couldn't sit on this any longer because I wanted to share the AMAZING artwork starlit has done for this story. Please go follow this uber talented (and super sweet) person on her blog: starlitsummersky.tumblr.com and check out ALL of her art. 
> 
> Also, my thanks to createandconstruct and jandjsalmon who are always there to listen to me ramble off ideas and offer me their feedback. I'm just so floored by how beautiful and supportive people are in this fandom. Thank you! ❤

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts and Comments always appreciated


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